


Walking on Eggshells

by Mighty_Ant



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Adopted Children, Boyd Mentioned, Commission fic, Established Relationship, Fenton's got a lot on his plate, Gyro has emotions he's just learning what to do about them, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28251759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mighty_Ant/pseuds/Mighty_Ant
Summary: Gyro is in denial and Fenton's nightmares are getting worse.
Relationships: Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera & Gyro Gearloose, Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera/Gyro Gearloose
Comments: 7
Kudos: 113





	Walking on Eggshells

Gyro’s leg bounces beneath Gloria Cabrera’s kitchen table as the woman in question calmly sips her tea. He was provided a mug as well, but he’s never been much of a tea drinker and it sits before him untouched, save to give him something to fiddle with. 

Despite the years he’s known Gloria, he’s never sure how to act around her when she’s out of uniform. She’s in a pair of sweats now, her hair still slightly wet and stringy from a shower, and her left arm’s in its sling. It makes Gyro more uncomfortable than if she had sat down with her gun and badge on display. Hostility he can deal with; all he has to do is respond in kind. 

What he doesn’t know how to handle is this level of informality. Gloria is the one without armor but he’s the one who feels exposed. She hasn’t called him “C reído,” her favorite nickname,  _ once  _ since she let him in or said much of anything at all since she pressed a mug of tea into his hands.

He doesn’t know what to do other than watch the dust motes floating in the glow of an orange afternoon shining through the window above the sink. Gyro’s never been here alone before, not in this kitchen, not in this house, not without Fenton at his side and he feels that absence keenly. 

Fenton’s on patrol right now, which Gloria knows just as well as he does. 

She sets her mug down with a clack, punctuating an end to the quiet like a period at the end of a sentence.

“My son hasn’t been himself lately,” Gloria says, blunt in all the ways her son  _ isn’t _ . Gyro fumbles his mug, spilling lukewarm tea over the side. “That’s why I called you,” she continues as though she was never interrupted, pushing the napkin holder over to his side of the table. “You  _ knew  _ that when I called you.” 

Protective instincts, reawakened by Boyd and fine tuned by Fenton, roar in his ears in spite of who he’s speaking to. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replies automatically, his movements stiff as he mops up the spill. 

Gloria is unimpressed, as her tone demonstrates. “Of course you don’t.” She holds out her hand, and it takes him a moment to realize that she’s waiting for him to place the sodden napkin in it. He does so and she rises from the table.  Over his stuttering protests,  she also skillfully takes both of their mugs in one hand . He’s out of practice caring about other people, but he’s trying. He is. 

“Fenton’s a worrier, always has been,” Gloria says, placing the mugs in the sink and throwing the napkin in the trash. It’s an understatement, and Gyro sympathizes with her grimace as she readjusts her sling. “But this is different,” she goes on. 

She turns, leaning against the counter to face him. Gloria’s half his height, but Gyro is rooted to his seat by the sharpness of her gaze. 

“He can’t keep a secret to save his life, and he’s been acting...very strange. Even before I got this.” She gestures to her left arm in its sling. “He calls me ten times a day but won’t tell me what’s wrong. And I don’t think he’s sleeping. When he’s here, I’ll hear the police scanner until four in the morning. He’s drinking more coffee now than when he was writing his thesis.” 

Gyro feels his hands begin to shake and he clenches them into fists until his knuckles ache. “Is there supposed to be a question in there?” he asks, sharper and more rudely than his partner’s mother deserves. 

Gloria glares at him for it, with enough heat to melt tungsten. “Is my son alright?” she demands, fierce as anything. But Gyro recognizes the desperation in her expression as a mirror of his own. 

He tightens his fists until his knuckles bend and bleach the skin above. 

“Yes,” he forces out. 

  
  
  
  
  


Two months after Scrooge hired Fenton on as Gizmoduck, he fell asleep at his desk in the middle of the day. 

The last of his bandages had come off weeks ago, erasing any lingering evidence of his catastrophic explosion over the bay. So Gyro didn’t have any compunction about ordering Manny to collect the heaviest items he could find and drop them inches from Fenton’s head. 

This was when any sense of admiration he might’ve had for Fenton was overshadowed by how much he despised their similarities. His eagerness and innate  _ goodness  _ were like a slap to the face, a pointed reminder of the consequences of Gyro’s own foolishness twenty years prior. Vindictively, he’d become determined to rub Fenton’s ignorance in his face, to prepare him for the real world as Akita had attempted to do for Gyro. 

So he had Manny drop the items (instruction manuals, an ancient phonebook, and a broken microscope) on the desk with a booming thud and he smirked when Fenton jolted upright in his seat. What Gyro didn’t anticipate was the brief expression of blank terror on Fenton’s face, or the fist he raised in a blur of movement, as though brandishing a weapon. 

“Bl…” he said, trailing off when he noticed Gyro standing awkwardly beside him. A more familiar chagrined smile rose to his face, taking the place of the emptiness that had been there previously. “Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Gearloose! I fell asleep didn’t I? I didn’t get home from patrol until late, there were some kids—”

“Whatever. Just don’t-don’t let it happen again,” Gyro snapped, a weak rebuttal by his standards, but he was too unnerved to say more before he stalked back to his side of the lab. He decided then to put the entire incident out of his mind. 

Gyro doesn’t have such a luxury anymore. 

Not since he started waking to Boyd’s eager yellow eyes on the other side of his breakfast table three days of the week. Not since he first knew what it was to have Fenton fold him into his arms when the weight of Gyro’s failures seem poised to crush him, humming softly in his ear until his dark thoughts fade. 

Not since the reveal of F.O.W.L., which blew all attempts at willful ignorance out of the water. 

Gyro’s known about Fenton’s nightmares since they began sharing a bed. He’ll bolt awake in the early hours of the morning, breathing hard and clutching his head in his hands. A nervous talker any other time, this is the one instance where Fenton doesn’t speak a word and Gyro will clutch his shoulder, not knowing how to break the silence. 

Months ago, he accessed the Gizmosuit’s security footage while running routine maintenance. Among countless hours of typical Gizmoduck heroics, Gyro found moments Fenton has never spoken of, moments that Gyro never even knew transpired. Each time a nightmare tears Fenton from slumber, Gyro wonders which memory was the culprit: watching the suit be overtaken by living shadows, Mark Beaks shattering his visor, or an empty-eyed Boyd on the brink of crushing his skull. When it comes to bad memories, Fenton has his pick of the lot. 

But Gyro doesn’t think it could get any worse than that. A few nightmares here and there, a few more appointments with a therapist on the McDuck Industries payroll, and thus obliged to sign a McDuck Industries NDA. Fenton remains himself in the face of his demons, impossibly chipper, impossibly  _ good, _ and Gyro tells himself not to worry. 

Then Gloria gets shot in the line and F.O.W.L. makes their six-decade comeback, and Fenton is most certainly  _ not  _ alright. 

  
  
  


Necessity has made Gyro a light sleeper. He’s worked on too many delicate, dangerous inventions not to be. But not even his time tub gaining sentience and zapping him across the time stream prepares him to be woken so abruptly, and by a phrase so out of place in his apartment. 

“ _ Blathering blatherskite!” _

Gyro is sitting up in bed before he’s processed what he’s heard. On instinct, he looks to the space beside him, though it has been empty more often than not the last few weeks. Just as he’d guessed, the covers are undisturbed and the sheets are cold. But he puts that out of his mind as the silence beyond his bedroom door lengthens, thick with tension like the aftermath of an explosion. 

He turns on the lamp to his right, fumbling for his glasses and his wristwatch on the nightstand. _ 3:15 _ the watchface reads. 

Apprehension niggles at the back of Gyro’s mind, dulling the vestiges of sleep as he pulls back the covers and climbs out of bed. Clad in long pajama pants and an officially licensed Gizmoduck shirt that Fenton gifted him for Hanukkah as a joke, he crosses the room and opens the door. 

Gizmoduck is in his dark living room. 

The suit is too tall to stand at its full height, evidenced by the hole in his ceiling. His shoulders are hunched, the head slightly bowed, and the gleaming red insignia is the only source of light in the gloom. Fenton doesn’t move, not even to look in Gyro’s direction, but that doesn’t mean the suit is  _ motionless.  _ Gyro sees the way the armor bristles, how its plating shifts like a living thing, concealing weapons that hum primed just out of sight. It’s a miracle nothing’s been deployed because the suit isn’t responding to commands, but rather Fenton’s own accelerated heartbeat. 

Gyro’s heart leaps into his throat with a suddenness that nearly chokes him. But he’s nothing if not accustomed to near-death situations, and he barks almost at once, “Override code: Eggshell!”

Since dragging around a massive duffel bag with the Gizmosuit inside doesn’t lend itself to subtly or convenience, they’d worked long and hard to enable the suit to fold into a briefcase upon deactivation, an update that Fenton, who has never been subtle a day in his life, sorely needed. _This_ isn’t that. Eggshell is not the seamless folding and flowing of technology they strove for weeks to to perfect. The suit bursts apart around Fenton and drops him to the floor among the scattered pieces. The expression of utter bafflement on his face would almost be funny, if this weren’t a profoundly _unfunny_ situation. 

“Cabrera, what were you thinking?” Gyro hisses as he rushes to Fenton’s side, fear making his voice harsh. He drops to his knees, hauling Fenton up from the carpet. Gyro can feel him shaking under his hands. 

“I…” Fenton swallows thickly, bloodshot eyes darting around the room. This close, Gyro sees the tight lines of exhaustion on his face, harsh as graphite. “I thought I heard something.”

“Something that called for enough firepower to level the building?” Gyro retorts caustically, barely hearing himself over the hammering of his heart. “I don’t think my super would be so cavalier about that happening a second time.”

Fenton still won’t look him in the eye. “S-sorry. It’s—I’m fine,” he says, the words tripping off his tongue, but this isn’t his usual rambling. 

Gyro breathes in deeply, reigning in his scattered wits with an unsteady hand. “There’s a Gizmoduck-shaped hole in my ceiling that says otherwise,” he teases, trying to be gentle, because, like the Gizmosuit, Fenton looks as though he might break into a hundred pieces if Gyro screws up and says the wrong thing. 

What happens instead is somehow worse. 

Fenton’s expression shutters, the franticness in his eyes glazing over between one blink and the next. He pulls his arm out of Gyro’s grip and scoots backward until he’s leaning against the couch. “I’m sorry, Gyro,” he mutters, digging the heels of his shaking palms into his eyes. 

His tiny apartment is painfully quiet. Behind them in the kitchen, the refrigerator hums and outside the window sirens wail in the distance. Feeling cold in a way that has nothing to do with temperature, Gyro looks at his partner in the gloom. 

Fenton is ebullient; he glows with promise and dedication, everything Gyro thought he hated about him that he’s since come to love. But Gyro doesn’t see any of that now. Fenton just looks spent. He looks dim and anxious and empty, sitting on the floor of their living room instead of asleep in their bed. 

Gyro joins him, sitting against the couch but leaving a foot of space between them. He tilts his head back against the cushions, rubbing his aching eyes between his forefinger and thumb. In his mind, questions are considered and rapidly discarded. He needs to do this right. 

He waits until Fenton’s shoulders have slumped and the shaking of his hands lessens. The long way it is. 

“What’re you even doing out here?” he asks. 

Fenton raises his head, blinking owlishly at him. “I didn’t-I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Gyro retorts. “I sleep better with you there, you know that.” Half a year ago, you couldn’t have torn that admittance from him with truth serum and torture. Now, it’s almost easy. 

“I’m sorry,” Fenton says again, and Gyro decides he doesn’t have the patience to try the long way after all. 

“Why were you really out here?” he turns his head, pinning Fenton’s gaze before it can skitter away. Fenton’s hands start shaking again, and he interlocks his fingers to stop them, tightening his grip until his knuckles show up stark through his brown feathers. 

He looks at a point just past Gyro’s head, which he’ll take as a victory. “My nightmares have been getting worse,” he says, so quietly it’s nearly lost under the hum of the refrigerator. 

“I figured,” Gyro replies. He reaches out, crossing the cold space between them, to take Fenton’s hand and still its severe, anxious movement. Fenton’s grip tightens practically to the point of pain, as a drowning man might cling to a lifeline. Gyro bears it without comment. 

“I was handling it,” Fenton insists. “You know that. I was-I was good. I was helping people, real people, and I didn’t let it affect my work. But then...but then  Mamá…” his voice breaks, and his tight swallow sounds painful enough to rival his grip. He blows out a breath, and more words follow on its tail. 

“Even before we  _ knew, _ I...Gyro, I’ve never felt so powerless. I feel like I let it all happen. Mamá getting shot, F.O.W.L. hiding right in front of our eyes. I’m Gizmoduck! I’m a superhero, I’m the one who’s supposed to know this stuff, the one who’s supposed to  _ stop  _ it, but I never do! I just let it happen, and it  _ keeps  _ happening, no matter what I d o—”

Fenton is near hyperventilating, his voice climbing in volume and speed and the expression in his eyes is one of horror. 

“Fenton,” Gyro says. 

“And what’s worse is, I could’ve hurt  _ you,” _ Fenton cries, words spilling from his mouth like a gushing stream now that he’s begun. “If you hadn’t used the override, I could have—and all over a stupid nightmare! What if  _ Boyd  _ had walked into the living room?” 

“It’s Tuesday,” Gyro replies, squeezing Fenton’s hand with numb fingers. “Boyd’s with the Drakes.”

That lands him with silence and Fenton’s glare, a rare and fierce thing. It’s made less so by the tremor wracking his body. “Gyro, I’m serious.” 

“And I’m not?” Gyro says, dredging up a smile that Fenton is only one of two recipients. He reaches for Fenton’s other wrist with his free hand and tugs lightly, inviting him into his space but leaving the choice up to him. Fenton comes willingly, and something within Gyro’s chest clicks like a puzzle piece into place when Fenton tucks his head beneath Gyro’s chin. 

“Are you psychic, Cabrera?” he asks matter-of-factly. 

“Uh,” he can feel Fenton blinking in confusion. “No?”

“Have you ever been in possession of fortune-telling abilities?”

_ “No. _ Gyro—”

“Then I’m not sure what powers of premonition you think a suit of gizmos is supposed to give you,” Gyro speaks over him resolutely. “It’s not your fault when bad people do bad things.”

Fenton tilts his head back against Gyro’s shoulder, finally meeting his gaze without evasion. His expression is pained and not a little afraid. “I’m not so sure about that. I’m G—”

“You’re the oh-so-important Gizmoduck, I know.” Gyro rolls his eyes, relieved when Fenton’s huff of laughter brushes warm against his throat. “I don’t remember the chapter in the superhero manual that says you have to go at it alone.”

Fenton leans back, his dark eyes roving over Gyro’s face. There’s surprise in his expression, and Gyro feels a stab of guilt. For as much as he proclaims to be a self-made man, he has nothing on Fenton, who clawed and scraped for every opportunity and remained utterly kind in spite of it. Until recently, Gyro’s been more of a hindrance than a help. 

He pushes himself to his feet, joints popping and cracking, and he takes Fenton with him. Gyro doesn’t draw attention to the way he sways on the spot. “What time did you finish patrol?” 

Fenton blinks up at him, the question taking a few seconds to process. “I...what time is it now?” 

Gyro shakes his head, smiling even as his chest tightens. “Nevermind. We’re going to bed. And tomorrow, once we’re properly rested, I’ll continue telling you what you’re doing wrong.”

The smile Fenton shoots up at him is genuine for the first time that night. “I thought you could do that in your sleep.”

“I can,” Gyro sniffs. “But I’d have no way of telling if you were listening.” 

Fenton laughs, honest and exhausted, until he nearly trips over one of the Gizmosuit’s discarded pauldrons.

Gyro catches him around the waist. “I’ve got you,” he says, and holds himself to it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to @byrdybyrd02 for commissioning me!   
> If you enjoyed this fic, go ahead and leave a comment below!


End file.
